


Dear, My Silence

by Cipherdrabbles



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Connor and Evan get real slow character growth, Delusions, Dissociation, Evans got repressed feelings, Eventual tree bros it's a slow burn!, M/M, Panic Attacks, Suicidal Thoughts, Theyre 19 now wow, oh my, silent hill au, there will be blood and graphic depictions of monsters my hell mind thinks of for the boys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 13:54:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13078266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cipherdrabbles/pseuds/Cipherdrabbles
Summary: By all means, Connor Murphy was dead. He's been dead for years. Years have passed since the incident, since the project, since his falling out with the people around him.He left it behind, at least, he thought he did.But in his hand was something that defied reason and logic, a letter. A breadcrumb trail leading far from his home, with perhaps the object of all his guilt waiting at the end.He followsOr: The Silent Hill AU No One Asked For





	Dear, My Silence

Two years lingered between then and now, since his last conversation with Zoe Murphy and now, where he stands in his own apartment. His roommate was away, and the cold air was starting to curl it’s way through the windows and slits of the doors. He was idly standing, fingers curled around the most peculiar piece of paper he’d received in his life. 

He’s long come to terms with the awful things he did, regardless of initial motive.

He used someone’s death in a way he shouldn’t have, manipulating his way closer to a life he wanted and the girl he adored once upon a time and the stars that littered the hem of her jeans. 

Evan’s guilt ate away at him with little to halt it for years, always distantly hearing a sad voice quietly chime from the back of his mind that it never had to end. The fake and semi comforting tone of a friend he projected onto a suicide victim he never knew.

Evan accepted Connor Murphy was dead for years, and that any relationship they had was just a delusion he fabricated. Initially for the sake of Connor’s family, certainly, but blown out of proportion as his ego and selfishness were fed.

So why was he holding a letter from him? 

Only a paper, but it weighed like lead in his shaking fingers, his eyes fixated onto the scrawl of Connor’s name, tracing the curve of the C with brows furrowed and lips set into a firm frown.

_"Dear Evan Hansen,_

 

_We’ve been way too out of touch._

_Things have been crazy, and it sucks that we don’t talk that much._

_But I should tell you that I never knew you well._

_However, I really need you to come and help._

_I’ve been stuck with this fucking fog, I can’t see shit_

_and I can’t find any car to get myself out of here._

_You sorta owe me for what fucking happened in the past._

_Maybe my family might be fucking happy to see me._

_The actual me._

 

_Sincerely, your best and most dearest friend,_

_Connor Murphy."_

It didn’t make sense, but he couldn’t find it in himself to be more than mildly surprised. After all, his delusions were persistent. Persistent but vivid, and it wouldn’t shock him if this was just another part of him that still found it hard to let go of what he did. But if this was the case, his brain was giving him a cruel joke.

He did what he usually did when his imagination took a physical turn, quickly whipping out his phone and taking a swift picture of the letter, entirely. The name was most significant to him. Within seconds, he sent a panicked text to his mother, just begging the reaffirmation that this was all fake.

His mother, timely as ever, gaze him a prompt response that chilled him to the bone, far more than the offsetting letter ever could.

 

Mom: No, I can read that, sweetie

Mom: Where did you get that?

 

And as his breath started to hitch, catching around a lump of grief swelling in his throat, another text came to him.

 

Mom: Are you okay? Do you need me to come visit you? I can take time off!

 

He couldn’t help but shake his head impulsively, despite the fact she wasn’t even there. God, it was easier to shake his head than text, leave it on read. But he couldn’t do that to her.

 

Me: No, I’m okay, I just found an old letter Jared and I made. Wanted to make sure it was really there, you know? I didn’t remember packing it.

 

The lie was believable enough, he just loathed how easy lying has gotten for him, almost as natural as the truth was. He tried to ignore how heavy the phone felt in the palm of his hand, ignore how sharp the edge of the paper was against his palm. Ignore the creeping of guilt he thought he was finally moving past.

But it was there, all over again. He pocketed his phone with a sigh, returning his attention to the piece of paper causing the coil of dread to settle deep in the pit of his stomach.

He turned it between his fingers, almost flipping it fully around if not for a scrawl of two simple words tucked into the corner of the page surrounded by a red symbol. Almost the color of blood, leaving the dark letters hard to read. 

“Go home.”

Home.

He was states away, he moved further south, closer to a coast line. Not too close, or there’d be swarms of people trying to get to the ocean every time the temperature warms and the frost simmers away.

But home sounded nice.

Then again, his eyes flickered back to the page that seemed to stare, inquisitive, almost like the words themselves were pleading him. He could almost hear the echo of a voice that was all too familiar but also so distantly foreign. The words never fit quite right in the mouth, and all too often were the words confused with the kind of bouquet you’d leave on a grave. 

A grave for a person you never knew. 

He dismissed the idea, opting instead to settle in for the day, curled up in his little bedroom in the very corner, surrounded by stark, bare walls. Pressing earbuds into his ears and trying to make the world melt away with the playlist his roommate made for him, despite how little they talk. The words they shared were nice but… 

It was always hard to connect when the ghosts of your past were a little louder than the people in the present.

And so he rested, dreams filled with twisting colors, shades of green that stretched to a shy blue. He was up in a tree, which wasn’t too dissimilar from his usual dreams.

The branch curled around him, gnarled and dried, almost dead looking if not for the abundance of vibrant greens clinging to each bit of wood it could. It cracked, unsteady, almost like a warning but Evan long since stopped flinching from the precarious perch he found himself stuck in.

But this dream was different.

His loneliness was interrupted by that same familiar voice but with hisses of curses that he never thought to write.

Blue eyes darted down, and though he was easily 40 feet off the ground, he could make out a silhouette coming to a stop near the base of another tree, the outline of someone  tall and lithe, arm curled around their middle and a hiss of pain sucked in through the teeth.

“Fuck!” 

Now, Evan didn’t know Connor, denying that was ridiculous of him no matter the situation that pushed him to devote himself to a lie. But he knew the voice of Connor almost as easily as he knew Jared’s. It had haunted him for years, after all. Though they were far apart, there was no denying his subconscious was fixating once more on the dead boy because there he was. Clear as day, and hurting.

Doubling over there was a spew of an unmistakably dark substance that splattered into the grass.

He opened his mouth to speak, but the blond was helplessly silent, watching the brunet struggle from afar to wrap a kind of bandage around his middle.

The dreams that included Connor were often light hearted, the day that Evan longed to have, or waking up with his arm numb to see the other male helping him to the hospital. All rose tinted with the beautiful lie that kept his loneliness at arm’s length. But now Connor was hurting, and Evan couldn’t help him.

For the first time in a while, he could feel the ebbing of adrenaline flooding his system as his heart began to race. Something akin to fight or flight lighting him aflame and he slowly, carefully worked his way out of the embrace of wood, sliding closer to the trunk of the tree.

Maybe if he could climb down. 

Maybe if he could help Connor…

  
Maybe if he could just talk to Connor…  
  
Maybe if he never let Connor sign his cast in the first place…

The branch snapped beneath the weight of his body and the dream didn’t last long enough to feel himself fall. 

Evan awoke with a start, sitting straight up in his bed with his chest heaving, breath uneven, and carding his fingers haphazardly through his messy bedhead. His eyes darted to his clock, wide and panicked before slowly melting into exhaustion. The digital clock blinked back at him in a steady rhythm of 2:00 A.M.

God knows he wasn’t getting back to sleep, so he stood, and did what he does best: pace.

And he paced for a solid hour before settling back into bed and staring up at the ceiling until it was okay to be up and about. Okay as in, an acceptable time for a human being to be awake, like 6 A.M, a respectable time for a responsible adult. Which Evan wasn’t, but he liked to pretend.

Three hours passed in silence, getting to know the shadows on the ceiling, the dust collecting in the corners. Too awake to sleep despite how all his body wanted was to relax rather than lay stiff as a board, as if he had to somehow stand straight while sleeping.

It was enough time to forget, push the letter and dream to the back of his head, neatly tucked away with all the other things that had Connor’s name sloppily written across it, big, blocky sharpie scrawl.

He’d address it later down the line, maybe with his therapist.

He wandered into the main room, fingers latching into the fabric of his shirt and twisting roses into the creases of the abused polo. His eyes swept over the familiar carpet, before swiftly landing on the space just under the main door. A corner of paper poked out from under the door, mockingly similar to the first. 

And he stood there, still as the dead and staring down at the clean corner as if it had slapped him from across the room. His fingers twitched, tugging at the worn sides of his shirt, mulling over what he should do before very promptly deciding to ignore it.

Ignore and push away.

He’d only recently found his closure with everything, and with the letter, with the dream… his feelings were muddled, his mind filled with a fog he couldn’t really fathom. Something felt hazy, like TV static flooding his limbs the longer he maintained eye contact with the letter before firmly reminding himself to leave it.

Another hour passed of pretending he could ignore it.

Another thirty seconds and he gives in, rushing to the page and plucking it up but hesitating. His eyes were in his lap, and his hands trembled.

Blue flickered upwards, confirming a suspicion he dreaded.

Another letter. 

 _"Dear Evan Hansen,_  
  
_I’m bleeding oh fucking god I’m fucking bleeding I don’t know what the fuck I’m going to fucking do;_  
  
_Everything is burning, fuck. Am I getting sick? All I fucking see is this damn fog. Every fucking time I think I’m making progress of getting out I fucking get trapped again FUCK! I CANT FUCKING GET OUT._  
  
_If I stop smoking_ ~~_drugs_ ~~ _pot then everything might be alright._  
  
_I’ll take your advice,_  
_Try and be more nice,_  
  
_Maybe I won’t disappear_  
  
_Sincerely, your best and most dearest friend,_ _  
_ Connor Murphy."

His vision was blurring, an undeniable queasiness sweeping over him and he swayed in place, he vaguely noted his mouth was open but he didn’t realize he was making noise until hands were pulling him up by the arms and dragging him towards the sink.

He was shaking, and the world was spinning and he could only be thankful that his roommate woke early as he curled himself towards the sink, grasping the lip of the counter with shaky hands as he coughed up whatever was in his empty stomach. 

Bile swam down the drain.

“Dude, I keep telling you, you gotta take care of yourself.” His roommate’s voice was scolding but the tone was more concerned than anything else. But it was distant, fuzzy.

His mind was focused on the words, on the panic. He shouldn’t think of Connor anymore, it was bad for him, so his therapist would say. Which one? It didn't matter, they all said the same.

Forgive yourself, then put his memory to rest.

That was it, but now he couldn’t ignore the brunet that killed himself. Not when the letters were real, which could only mean the meaning was real.

Connor was potentially alive, and bleeding, and hurting, and desperately trying to reach out. 

Through the haze of his mind, in-between forcing bites of food that all tasted like sand on his tongue, he found his car keys. Found his bag. Found some clothes and water to stuff in the bag along with the notes in a green glossy folder. Found a sticky note to leave a message for Michael after he had left for work, noting how worried his roommate was about him.

 _"Michael,_  

_Heading home for a few days to clear my mind, I’ll text you when I get home!_

_Please remember not to let the dishes sit overnight in the sink!_

_Sorry, I’ll be back soon_

_I promise_

_Sincerely,_

_Me"_

He left, only ten minutes after his roommate. His hands like vice clamps on the steering wheel as he braced himself for a long drive home along the highway.

An easy drive with little changes, maintaining an almost constant speed. He plowed through the hours as the sun dipped down past the horizon and the moon climbed into the sky, the flood of cars thinning to a trickle as the night hours slowly ticked away.

It struck him, distantly, that perhaps he should’ve contacted someone. Like Jared. Even if it’s been years. Two years, and the bitter moods were probably still high. In fact, he couldn’t shake a growing feeling that perhaps Jared sent it. Sure, Zoe and Alana’s faces flashed to mind but when it came to the feeling of the letter, it was too foreign to come from Zoe and Alana’s hands. The curves of the letters were too slanted to be Alana’s neat print, the letters too big to fit in the margins of notes like Zoe’s. 

And it sounded so much like the Connor he and Jared stitched together through the words of a few fake emails. It was uncanny, the inflections and similarities if not for the desperate sections that sounded entirely different. But it was there. And it wasn’t exactly outside of the realm of possibility. After all, Jared and Evan’s relationship never did quite recover. Nor his relationship with anyone, except his mother, often leaving him alone with the hollow rendition of the brunet that still seemed to linger. He couldn’t bring himself to dislike the company of the voice that still dripped with honey whenever he let himself listen. 

He hated doubting, but the letters and the Connor project left him numb, almost indifferent. So doubting his old “friend” felt natural, too natural. Or maybe this was how he conditioned himself to handle the mocking jeers, it only took two years since they last saw each other.

Two years, no texts to prove his doubts wrong.

God, he was jaded. 

He pulled off the highway once his thoughts got to be too suffocating, eyes burning from the strain of watching his headlights, of paranoid glancing over the shoulder every two seconds. Though it was cold and he was moving North there was something off about the temperature, and at this point he could only bring himself to chalk it up to exhaustion.

Setting the cruise control to forty, he drove down an empty narrow road with trees flanking the sides. Pines, he noted, almost on reflex. The road stretched for a few miles before finally offering a turn into a large, vacant parking lot. The lack of cars shouldn’t have caught him as off guard as it did, but it was always imposing to find a pitch black area that lacked any other life. 

If he still had self preservation, he would’ve turned and torn down the road back to the highway just to escape the eerie feeling this place gave off. But Evan found himself in the same place he was in the summer leading to senior year: numb and empty. So he parked before his nerves could stop him, leaning his head back into the seat and flashing his headlights.

As he suspected, there was nothing but trees and road and the falling of snow. And his mind desperately tried to reason that sleeping in an abandoned parking lot without any indication of where the nearest gas station is was a bad idea. 

His lack of care was persistent, however.

He stayed in park for all of three minutes before stepping out, stretching out his legs before wandering. The bag full of clothes, water, snacks, and the letters hanging from his shoulder, settled against his hip. He traced the tracks of tires down to the start of the road, staring into the dark with the beams of his headlights lighting up the area around him, large trees surrounded the abandoned parking lot, and not too deep past the outer edges of the forest was a wall. Solid concrete amidst the lightly forested area.

Out of place. 

He couldn’t help himself from cautiously wandering over, taking out his phone just for the meager flashlight the little device offered. Something in his brain screamed this was a very ‘white person in a horror movie’ thing to do, but he shoved it aside with the reasoning that his car was right there, on, and if anything happened, bolting would be easy with his skittish nature.

The tree near the wall was distinctly a weeping type, slouched with hanging branches that just begged for someone to climb. He would’ve walked away after finding nothing, but the light of his flashlight caught the familiar red outline of some symbol he couldn’t name. 

His thoughts darted to the first letter and his impulse took the wheel from his rational thought. 

He climbed.

The branches were sturdy as he carried himself up and up until he stood on the bent curve of the trunk. It was just tall enough for his hands to grasp the top edge of the wall. He pulled himself, slowly, up the side of the wall with his feet desperately trying to catch onto any hold in the concrete. 

He tried to pretend this didn’t feel agonizingly familiar. 

Pretended to ignore the lurch of his heart as he looked over the other side and the drop seemed so much steeper than the climb with nothing to catch him on the way down. 

He should go back, turn around, climb in his car, go home. Or his apartment. 

Michael was probably worried. 

He hasn’t texted his mom back.

What if he can’t get back? 

What if he gets lost? 

What if his mother sends out a rescue party after calling the police just wondering where her son is only to have a long, almost endless search. The trail would go cold. They’d find his decomposing body years down the line probably at the foot of a tree! 

A flood of concerns filled his head as he looked over the edge with an uncertainty. Something was drawing him in but… what was the point if he couldn’t go back?

So he slowly tried to find his footing to go back, when he felt a harsh wind knock at his back, hard, and he felt himself teetering forward swiftly, unsteady. His heart skipping a beat as another wind pushed him further, until he found himself toppled.

And he was falling.

He was unconscious probably the instant he made contact with the ground, slipping away once more, the dream was more familiar this time. He blinked awake to a numbness in his arm and to a voice calling his name. 

The wall was gone here, replaced by a chorus of trees, the leaves swaying with a gentle breeze. A boy in a dark gray jacket was at his side so quickly, tone reassuring, if a bit clumsy. Not that he could blame him, he wrote him, and Evan never did well with comforting. It’s only natural this shoddy rendition of the boy would be just as awkward.

“Jesus- fuck, Evan-” He was scrambling for words. It was unnatural and alien, his mannerisms on a thinner, paler face. “Just wait, I’ll call someone, alright?”

 “Okay.” It was hollower than it once was. But for the past year it was like this, absent responses to the fake concern. And he turned his head, slowly, looking just beyond the fake to a patch of grass. 

It was sunny in the spot, rays of light streaming through parted branches just right to catch crimson red clinging to blades of grass. And the world seemed to ebb into static around him, with nothing in focus but the bloody patch of grass and the hand of the Connor from the letters, firm on his shoulder. 

But pressing.

Trying to keep him down. 

“Evan, what are you looking at?” There was a frustration that seemed a little more right but never enough.

“Nothing.” He mumbled, but making no attempt to look at the other. 

Fingers curled into his shoulder, and he couldn’t help but think to himself: he’s thinner than I remember.

He finally looked up, catching his own eyes staring back at him, accusing and sharp, it was enough to jar him awake. Blinking his eyes open to a gray sky, the grass under his fingers felt dry and dead, the snow was noticeably colder than it should be, a sharp pain sparking across his flesh.

It was enough to force him to sit up, dragging himself into a curled upright position. Slouched as he gathered a pile of white specks into his right hand. He let it sift through the spaces of his fingers, drawing his hands up to dust them off on his shirt.

But his left arm was heavier now, bulkier. And for a moment, there was a fear lighting it’s way through his system at hyperspeed. His breathing picked up as he slowly brought his right index finger to his left arm and traced a line from the elbow to the wrist. A small whimper passing his lips the moment he bumped bandages that wrapped all the way down his forearm to his hand. 

His cast was back, suddenly and without warning. He was alone, pressing himself against a wall he didn’t know, with no way back to the safety of his car.

As panic set in, he did the second best thing he was good at: hyperventilating. 

His only solace, if you can even call it that, was only a few feet away, clear against the white of freshly fallen snow. A withered tree with a patch of bloody grass near the base.

And he stared, longer than he should. And he thought about it, longer than he should.

There were certain habits Evan found dreadfully hard to stop: peeling the sides of his nails, biting his lower lip raw, picking at his spontaneous cast, not eating for days. In this case, it was his ability to hyper-fixate on a single point and lose himself in the endless possibilities.

It was proof, and he didn’t know whether or not he wanted it as of yet. He had to think about it, debate, was this evidence that Connor Murphy had to hobble here and spit up blood wanted? If it was even Connor, his delusions weren’t terribly clear, at least that one wasn’t. Which brought him to another paranoid thought: how could he trust his own mind? How did he know this wasn’t fake too?

He was going to have a panic attack with his grip on reality slowly loosening, the world was blurring until he felt a fabric under his hands. Firm and warm, the snow warping into a yarn spun carpet under a couch he was situated on. Across from him, a shadowy form sat with a light settled too close behind their head, and somehow he could recognize it as his therapist. 

One of them.

Which one?

He couldn’t remember their names. Any of them.

“Evan,” They started, tone crisp and clear through the static that flooded him, “Remember what we talked about, okay?”

He couldn’t, his brain was foggy and he could only stutter incoherently. Words clumsy and stumbling out like cotton balls that left his tongue uncomfortably dry.

“Hey, Evan,” their voice dropped, softer and more maternal. They didn’t approach him or touch him, just for the respectability of the job but that was okay. Their voice was strong. If only he could remember their face. “Breathe, okay? There’s nothing dangerous here, nothing’s going to hurt you… let’s focus on what’s around you.” Their tone was nothing but reassuring, and he exhaled, shakily.

“Okay.” He breathed, shaking to his core like a leaf in a storm. He was unsteady taking breaths, but he could focus. Somewhat.

“Okay, what are five things you can see, Evan?” Their hands were folded in their lap, professional.

“Uh- I see… you.” He paused, darting his eyes around. “The carpet, the sofa…” He paused, flicking his gaze to just behind their head. “The light.” Another pause. “The tree.”

“Good, good.” They affirmed, leaning a little forward, but their tone was soft and pleased and he preened from the praise inwardly. “Four things you can touch?”

His hands curled on themselves, the dull edge of his nails leaving crescent indents in his palm. “The couch.” A hand instinctively latched itself into the fabric of his shirt. “My polo, the grass, and my bag.” 

That’s right. It was cold.

“Now, three things you can hear? You’re doing good, Evan, just a little more.” The praise warmed him.

“Um, I can hear you, obviously.” He joked, softly with an awkward chuckle passing his lips, but they joined along. It was refreshing, and genuine… “I can hear myself and the wind.” His tone was perking up, his breath stabilizing. The cozy room was slowly melting, he could feel the grass and the cold against his fingers, but he wasn’t so bothered.

“Two things you can smell?”

“Ink and…” His mind flickered, for a moment, not even a moment, to bloodied grass. The silence lingered until his therapist politely cleared their throat before he could drift too far. “Uh, trees, I guess.”

They nodded, satisfied. “And one thing you can taste?” They faded then. Leaving Evan alone with the tree and the wall and the blood. After a moment of consideration, he tilted his head back to gaze up at the sky and catch a freshly fallen snowflake on the tip of his tongue.

“Snow.”

He was grounded, or as grounded as he could be, and he found the energy to stand after a few beats of sitting, almost helpless. His legs wobble but he finds his footing, bracing his hand against the wall. His other hand quickly pressed over his bag, full of what few belongings he had before he began his trudge, tracing concrete with his fingertips.

He was trying to put the feeling of bandage around his arm out of his mind. Or how his hoodie sleeve was already tugged up around the top. It was purposeful. 

The situation was beyond strange, but in his head he found some comfort in reminding himself he was prone to delusions. The cast likely wasn’t even real, and possibly a product of the fall, or so he tried to rationalize as best he could with how itchy his arm was getting.

There was a fog closing in from the furthest points of the tree line and without many options, he began to follow the wall to the side. At the very least, he may be able to find an opening, a way back to his car. Sure he was limping, but it was better than sitting still and waiting for hypothermia or starvation to kill him.

This did, however, leave him alone with his thoughts, which wasn’t always a bad thing, at least when a situation was relatively average. This wasn’t average and he couldn’t help but wonder why the wall was there, why there was a stretch of road that seemed to follow parallel to the side when there was noticeably no road cutting through this side of the wall. In fact, there was little else than a dirt path that was trying to coax him away from the wall, into the forest, into the fog.

He stayed close to the concrete in spite of how tempting the overgrown walkway was, because where there was a path, there was a location it lead to. But the wall was safer, in his mind, a surer path that only came to a stop when it was interrupted. Not by the end, not by means he could really understand. There was a gash in the earth, though the wall continued the ground seemed broken with the other side far out of jumping range.

The floor split itself in two just to fuck with him, it seemed.

Reluctantly, he took the next best option and followed the break of earth, only to find that it was leading him towards the very route he was trying to avoid. Even still, he had to get back to the boundary, follow it but… he froze, staring down the trail where there was the faintest of light, the snow just highlighting the spot that drew his gaze.

But there was someone there, lithe and tall, he couldn’t make out specific details aside from the outline of hair that seemed to fall to their shoulders but he couldn’t figure out if they were staring back at him. He didn’t trust his voice, it lacked any force and he’d no doubt sound terrified so he timidly tested the water by raising his hand and waving at the shadow.

They waved back before seemingly being blown away by a particularly strong wind, further down the path. The fog closed in around Evan like wolves circling wounded prey, he could feel his legs moving almost of their own volition. He wasn’t in a condition to be running, but he was sprinting with heavy footsteps slapping along the dirt trail. Something in him desperately wanted to reach the other figure, and he stubbornly fought back the part of him that reminded him of how vainly he chased the letters “Connor” sent him.

That wasn’t it. He just… didn’t know where he was. This was the first sign of another person and perhaps they could direct him back to his car?

He wasn’t hoping.

“Wait!” He called out, but his voice shook and his teeth chattered from the cold of the wind he was sharply inhaling with each step.

It wasn’t long until he was staggering on his feet, panting and doubling over from the strain of his lungs. He looked around, desperate and cold, but with no sign of the figure. The only thing here was a chain link fence with a small tear through the bottom, just big enough for a body certainly but he had no intentions of worming his way under.

Not to mention, the fence itself was way too tall to safely climb. Still, he leaned in, curling his fingers in the spaces of thin metal wire and peering through the other side. He could see a town not too far off, soft glowing lights.

There was suddenly a sharp, crackling sound that pierced through the quiet air. He gasped loudly, hopping back from the fence before his gaze dropped down into a pile of snow a foot away on the other side of the fence. Submerged under the snow was a walkie talkie that blared aloud.

Through the static of the little device, he could hear a voice, faint but humming loud enough to draw his attention.

The tune he doesn’t know but as he listened he found himself slowly kneeling down on his side of the fence, listening. There was a panicked strain in the tone, panting breaths. It was dimly familiar, but didn’t ring particular bells.

In the distance, in the town, he could hear the faintest hint of a car alarm sounding off. A beat later, the walkie talkie shrieked with a louder rendition and the voice hissed out a “Fuck.”

Okay, that was more identifiable.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! Stupid fucking cars!” There was the sound of running and the verification of his suspicions, vocal and vague as it was, had Evan promptly shoving his bag through the hole at the bottom of the fence.

Connor was in there. Sure, he was yelling at cars but he was in there. Which meant he was alive!

Evan began crawling through the opening with renewed vigor, digging his fingers into snowy ground and dragging the top half of his body through the gap. Uselessly, he reached for the device that had fallen quiet but fell short by mere inches. His hand slumped against the dirt and he heaved a sigh that came out like steam curling into the chilled air.

He squirmed, slowly, and feeling the pricks of metal against his lower back as the device slowly came back to life. But it was different this time. Less like static and more like… the scraping of metal. And it was getting louder.

A branch snapped not too far behind where his legs were and panic flooded him like a dam bursting open. He frantically grabbed at the dirt to yank himself through but found himself stuck at the hips.

It was lumbering, heavy thuds with each step that crept closer to Evan’s helpless form. He darted his gaze before finally turning to look over his shoulder but what he saw defied a lot of the messy logic he’s come to know.

It was emaciated and tall, it’s neck stretched long. There was the faint hint of arms trapped in the flesh of it’s torso before the bones seemed to snap to curl it’s forearms and fingers around and into its throat. Wherever it’s facial features should be was nothing but a stretch of almost translucent skin pulled taut over an open mouth. It pumped full of air with each gasp and moan the creature made.

The sounds were guttural drones, loud groaning that was muffled and strained. Like it was trying to scream past the tight grip on its throat and the skin that kept its mouth sealed.

With each step it took with it’s thick, bulky legs he could see the veins that spiraled a sickly green under a layer of pale flesh. How they hung off the ankle, open like a wound and planting into the earth as if to cement it’s steps.

It seemed to recognize he was there, even without eyes or ears and it started moving towards him, faster. Staggering steps that seemed to shake the ground the closer it got.

Fight or flight was always powerful with him, and with one hand pulling to loosen the fence enough to worm through, the other groped at the ground. He was panicking, fast, and a panic attack would only get him killed faster.

He was used to flight, it was convenient and easy. But his ensnarement meant it was impossible.

“C’mon, c’mon!” He urged himself silently, and as the creature loomed over him, it’s jaw unhinged, splitting the film of skin over its mouth until it was impossibly wide and gaping with flat, dirty teeth and rotting gums.

His hand found wood, and the creature made a move to dive towards his legs.

He drove the long thin branch through a gap in the fence with a desperate force. His eyes clenching shut at the disgusting sound of the wood piercing through papery flesh. Hesitation flooded him before he tentatively peered up to see the branch firmly spearing through the monster’s head. It’s mouth hung open and a long line of drool slowly pooling out past its teeth.

With one last scrambling motion he pulled himself through before doubling over near the walkie talkie and spewing out stomach bile. Every one of his nerves was still on overdrive, and he couldn’t shake how close he’d been to dying. To having his intestines in the jaws of that thing...

His eyes flickered from the hole to the creature to the walkie talkie, grabbing and gripping it tightly. Praying somehow that perhaps having it in his hands would make the abomination slumped lifely against the fence vanish but it remained, skewered and bleeding a black, thick liquid. It dripped down the links of metal, coating them until they were the color of ink.

The walkie talkie crackled back to life and it was enough to snap Evan out of his daze, swiping a hand down to grab his back and sling the strap over his shoulder. Connor wasn’t far, he was in that distant town draped in a fog.

Was he making a bad decision given he was just attacked by a monster? Yes. But at this point, if the object of all the guilt still eating at him was so close, he’d rather be vindicated than alive.

He wandered down the path through the wooded area, down sleeping hills before the path broke, spilling out onto a sidewalk, and though the snow kept falling, it seemed to melt the moment the flakes came in contact with the cement. Well, at least he didn’t have to worry about his lack of snow shoes.

“Hello?” He called out down the stretch of road surrounded by vacant buildings with cracked windows, taking tentative steps down the street and glancing around, despite how dense the fog was. He could hardly see ten feet ahead of him, leaving him particularly anxious about wandering too far if more of… those things were here. But it was silent like a graveyard, the only sounds were his own breathing and the cooing wind. And even those gusts were few and far between. He never knew a city could be so silent, he couldn’t even hear birds or crickets…

Just silence.

He tried desperately not to let it grate on his nerves, the quiet, but he’d never been good at filling the space other people left. Never could quite speak up to make it warmer, so it sat colder than the snow against his flesh.

Cars were noticeably abandoned, but neatly parked, the roads were all recently paved with so few cracks that he wondered if anyone ever drove on these streets, but he doubted it. No matter what he did, there was no one, just silence.

All he needed was some time to think, but it was deafeningly quiet, and it steadily becoming too much to bare.

Big, empty spaces were too much for him and his anxiety spiked wildly, forcing him to duck between buildings, a tiny alley that lead to a fence at the very end. There were trash cans, some knocked over, bags of garbage laying out that was strangely floral, dead petals spilling out of black bags. Between the piles of trash was a rusty pipe, bent and worn but sturdy. It seemed almost purposefully planted, and he tentatively scooped it up. The weight was solid and it strangely eased his mind to have some kind of blunt weapon on hand.

Right on cue, the walkie talkie lit up and he whipped around to face the open end of the alley he came down, pressing his back into the fence with his arms raised, pipe at the ready. Only to find himself pausing, at a loss of words and breathing out into the bitterly cold air what was left in his lungs.

Connor’s silhouette, at least, he assumed it was Connor. Lanky and thin with long legs and hair, standing, unmoving. Even though he couldn’t see him clearly, Evan could feel the gaze burning through him, the pipe slipped through his trembling fingers. The sound of metal slamming into pavement was like muted TV static in the face of his panic and relief.

“Connor…?”

His words were cut off by arms extending through the gaps of the fence, wound together like the winding fabric of rope. One arm slapped over his throat, another grabbed at his arm, another gripping onto his hair. A panicked gasp left his throat as he tried desperately to writhe out of the grasp of whatever was holding him captive, a distinct and sharp burn slowly pressing into his back.

He could feel the fabric of his jacket heating, almost to a point of burning his skin, his eyes were locked onto the sky, gray and snowing. The chill of the air was little reprieve, only served to make the heat that much more intense.

A shot rang out, a bullet slicing the air with the precision of a knife and narrowly avoiding his cheek and shoulder, followed by two more in quick succession. And though it screamed, how it screamed so shrilly against his back, his eyes fell and locked onto the shadow that saved him.

Connor saved him, arm still extended and holding a gun that billowed smoke from the mouth. He seemed to pause, staring down at him before slowly tilting his head. Before the blond could say anything, thank him, ask him why he’s been here for years, Connor turned and ran.

Evan was left alone, once more, his hands helplessly curling and uncurling against the fabric of his burnt jacket. He stepped away from the fence, not quite willing to turn and see what exactly grabbed him, picked up his pipe, and rushed out of the alley to follow the brunet. Though he tripped over his own feet, stumbling as the shock still held his nerves captive.

As he peered down the street he could still see the figure, he could still see Connor, waiting, as if checking to see if Evan was following.

“Come on, Evan, follow me.” A voice range out, familiar and warm and with some effort, the blond was moving again, rushing after the other. But Connor was always ahead, his longer, thinner legs giving him an advantage as he rushed down vacant streets, stopping only when Evan needed a breather.

Somehow, the lankier male just never seemed to get tired leading him circles around the ghost town.

Only stared at him with an almost fond chuckle escaping him, carried by the wind.

He didn’t even know where Connor was leading him aside from further into whatever hellscape this was. He passed by a plethora of building types, all stocked from what he could tell from his swift glances towards the windows. Merchandise filling the shops for a total of no one, not a soul aside from the two of them.

Unless those monsters go on shopping sprees.

He passed by a strip club and forced the mental image of a monster wandering into their in it’s free time out of his head.

Finally, after a few more twists and turns down streets and back alleys Connor was paused in front of a clean metal door to a building with potted plants framing the doorway. The door opened slowly, with a soft creaking sound before stepping inside.

And Evan watched, leaning against a wall and greedily gulping air into his lungs from the physical exertion. It was taxing chasing after someone through an abandoned town but after a few moments he was able to get his shaking legs moving, into the building, sliding the door shut behind him. The room was filled with bright, soft colors, the distant sound of music filling the space. It was a cramped little apartment building with doors and a staircase, narrow, that lead upwards.

Evan was not about to climb stairs when his legs were already close to giving out on him, but he couldn’t intrude and barge into a room. But then again he also couldn’t bring himself to knock on the doors around him, it would only initiate conversation. What if no one was here but all the rooms were locked? Would he sleep on the stairs?

The door to right creaked open, the scent of taco mix that reminded him too much of a home he was missing pulled him in. Perhaps, there was the slight hope he’d open the door and see his mother. But Heidi was noticeably absent. Still, the room had the colors of his old house, there was a plate of food sitting out for him.

And pinned down by the clean white plate piled with warm tortilla, cheese, meat, and lettuce was a note. He plucked it out and slowly settled on the couch, awkward and stiff. No one was here… so perhaps he was supposed to come in?

He just didn’t want to get yelled at.

He unfolded the paper in his trembling fingers.

_“Dear Evan Hansen,_

_Stay in here_

_You won’t disappear._

_Sincerely, your best and most dearest friend,_ _  
_ _Connor Murphy.”_

He never took Connor to be one for dramatics, or cryptic talking patterns but he had no reason not to believe it. And then his eyes were drawn to the wall opposite of him, a map hung up, crinkled and used. 

It was large but simple, and even sitting away from it he could see certain buildings circled with a red marker. He stood, approaching the sheet and tracing his fingers around the streets.

The red circles all had a very quick scrawl in the center of “safe house”, and that only served to put him more on edge. If there were safe houses, there were dangers everywhere else…

Evan often thought about the way he would die, clean, simple, and quick solutions. Pills would put him under before he’d feel the panic but the thought of waiting scared him, it was the same with drowning. He wanted no time to second guess. He thought of a gun, but that was messy and he hated the thought of anyone else having to clean any bloody mess he’d leave behind. Falling from a 40 foot tree. It was something to think of, and it was always his choice, in the end.

Now, he was faced with possible death he had no say in, and he was terrified. His eyes flickered towards the upper right corner of the paper, worn down chicken scrawl with a dying pen. He read out Connor’s name and somehow, he was a little less scared. Maybe, at the very least, he wouldn’t be alone.

And finally, his eyes landed on the name of the town, the place that had him trapped and gasping for a moment of reprieve after onslaught after onslaught on both his both his body and mind. His clothes now dirty and singed from mud, vomit, and almost being burned alive by something he couldn’t see. And he was tired, so tired that it took a bit to get the name sounding right in his head.

Silent Hill.

**Author's Note:**

> Catch me on my tumblr where I got all kinds of wacky gay shit: https://cipherdoodles.tumblr.com/


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